Strife: Quest for the Sigil
by Xfing
Summary: Hello there, everyone! This is my first fanfic in English - a novelization of the amazing FPS/RPG 1996 game, Strife. The story of the game is very deep and compelling, yet incomplete and sports several plotholes, loose ends and red herrings. I think a novelization is due in order to explain many questions any story-conscious player would have. Please enjoy!
1. Introduction

Introduction

The following backstory is provided within the game itself as voiced narration in the starting screen:

The comet struck our planet without warning. We lost our paradise in a single, violent stroke. The impact released a virus, which swept through the land and killed millions. They turned out to be the lucky ones... for those that did not die became mutations of humanity. Some became fanatics, who heard the voice of a malignant god in their heads, and called themselves The Order. Those of us who were deaf to this voice suffer horribly, and are forced to serve those ruthless psychotics, who wield weapons more powerful than anything we can muster. They destroy our women and children, so that we must hide underground and live like animals - in constant fear for our lives. But there are whispers of discontent! If we organize, can we defeat our masters? Weapons are being stolen... soldiers are being trained... a movement is born! Born of lifelong STRIFE!


	2. Welcome to Tarnhill

Chapter 1: Welcome to Tarnhill

The cold wind of a late summer morning gently struck Malcolm's face as he trod a cobbled road leading to the town of Tarnhill. The oppression of the devout religious sect called the Order ran rampant throughout the entire small continent of Cloverholme, and he knew that worldwide expansion was soon to follow - a good opportunity to make some gold for a mercenary such as him. And a mercenary he was to the core - he genuinely did not care much for the world, it could burn down as far as he was concerned. As long as he possessed the means to create a safe and wealthy little world of his own, that is. Malcolm had heard stories about the comet's impact four years ago, and himself borne witness to the atrocities caused by the virus released. As though the gargantuan death toll worldwide weren't bad enough, the bigger problem seemed to be the survivors of the infection - who instead of creating a well-distributed net of influence, opted to converge in Cloverholme for some reason, clamping down on it with an iron fist. And rumors had it that Tarnhill was specifically connected to the core of the Order's terror. Malcolm did not know why and little did he care - he only thought of the moneymaking opportunities that the town would likely offer.

As he reached the final elevation of the winding road, the town finally showed its humble splendor. Malcolm let a grin of satisfaction grace his visage - the solitude of his three day trek would at last come to an end. Naturally he had not met any trading caravans, as to call the Order's restrictions on trade harsh would be an understatement. He descended the gentle slope and made his way to the outskirts of the quiet town, when an abrasive noise reached him.

"Hmm, no mistakin' it. That unnatural voice has got to be the Acolytes!", he realized immediately. No living, conscious person on the continent of Cloverholme hadn't encountered an Acolyte before. And indeed, a battalion of no less than ten, clad in soulless, gray armors, was in the midst of violently searching local homes and shops. Malcolm hid behind a wooden pillar and observed quietly. He noticed two acolytes forcibly bringing a man out of his house and taking him somewhere in the opposite direction. "Not pretty", he surmised, "I didn't come all the way here just to go back, that's for sure. What to do?". His thoughts were soon dispelled, however, as a thundering, mechanical voice behind him uttered:

"Hey! Who the hell are you?!". It was an acolyte, dressed in gray as well. How could he have not sensed someone approaching?

"Um... I'm a wanderer", he replied, "I just came to town, I don't really know..."

"I don't like you, you're coming with me", the soulless trooper cut him off, then spoke seemingly to nobody (which Malcolm recognized as a radio communicator), "Team, get ready. I've got another one here". Malcolm didn't like it one bit, but he decided to play along for the time being - taking on an Order trooper unarmed out in the open wasn't the wisest tactical choice. The acolyte grabbed him by the neck and started leading him across town, in the direction Malcolm would soon recognize as the one the prisoner he noticed earlier was led in. They made it across a bridge over a river, ascended a set of stairs and soon emerged in what seemed to be a waste treatment plant. A remote enough location, Malcolm noticed. The acolyte opened the wooden door barring a small room and immediately shoved Malcolm inside.

"Oh my goodness!", he uttered, as he noticed the gray-clad acolytes shooting a defenseless civilian, then dumping his fresh corpse into a pool of foul nukage, constantly renewed by streams pouring down from two pipes.

"Approach, prisoner", ordered one of the executioners, "You watch the entrance", he muttered to his colleague. If there even existed a notion of camaraderie between them.

"Roger", responded the acolyte who led Malcolm into this mess, then slammed the door shut and proceeded to keep watch. Malcolm already knew that it was about time to put to use the punch dagger he had concealed for occasions just like this one. He just needed to wait for the best moment.

"Who are you, what are you doing here?", snarled the second acolyte, "Respond!"

"I'm just a wanderer who looks for work!", replied Malcolm, according to the truth. The acolyte seemed not very pleased, but continued his questioning.

"Have you registered your arrival at the governor's secretarial office?", his gun arm twitched dangerously.

"Umm no, I haven't really had the chance, since you guys...", Malcolm couldn't even finish, as his interrogator immediately cocked his rifle and pointed it at him. The time to act was now - Malcolm grabbed the barrel and pushed the gun aside, as a volley of bullets exited with loud banging. He then produced the fist-mounted punch dagger from within his hidden pouch, and attempted to sink the sharp blade in the trooper's vitals. His first punch didn't penetrate the armor that covered the torso, but he immediately renewed the assault with double the fervor, knowing his life was at stake here. And damage he did, the dagger left a deep wound, likely reaching the acolyte's liver, and a second later, another thrust should have pierced his stomach. The other acolyte reacted fast - he started to approach, but Malcolm drove the wounded soldier's silhouette so that it would constitute a meat shield for him.

"We're going to kill you!", the oppressor screamed, firing bullets indiscriminately. His partner in executions soaked up a good amount of slugs, before Malcolm rammed into him and pushed the body into collision with the shooter. He did manage to pull it off - the acolyte lost his balance and tripped. Malcolm immediately exploited this moment of weakness and stuck his dagger in the space not covered by the trooper's helmet. The death was, expectedly, imminent. Malcolm then rapidly swiped a medkit he noticed around and started to make his way out of the room, but the third soldier opened the door before he could take another step. He must have heard.

"Where do you think you're going, prisoner?", he grunted, immediately opening fire. Malcolm took cover inside an alcove in the wall, as a hail of bullets grazed the concrete. He heard the acolyte taking slow, methodic, almost machinelike steps in his direction. "Not too witty", he thought. As the acolyte got in the vicinity, the wanderer jumped out of the alcove in a forward roll, then surprised the acolyte with his speed from behind, sticking the dagger in his lower neck, before the soulless trooper could react in any way. The enforcer fell right away.

"Not too bad, three of 'em and not a single bullet hole", the mercenary noticed aloud, pretty proud of his accomplishment. He had never killed an Order acolyte before either, he was quite surprised by how easily they went down. He picked up the medkit he dropped to fight the final goon and threw it in his bag.

"You sons of bitches deserve a burial like the one you offered those poor slobs", he muttered, then proceeded to drag the closest acolyte's body into the pool of slime. It didn't seem as much caustic as it was toxic, and Malcolm had no expectations that it would dissolve the bodies or anything, but it would suffice to hide the evidence for the time being. The bodies seemed unnaturally heavy, though, Malcolm could have sworn they weighed twice as much as your regular chap their height. He did manage to dump them in, however.

"Now this little baby I'll be taking with me". He picked up one of the assault rifles from the floor

and took a shot at one of the barrels that were standing in the room. It, however, did not fire a round. "Freakin' piece of garbage, it must be that they remotely jam those in the event of these assholes' deaths! Oh well". He discarded the gun and finally left the interrogation chamber.


End file.
